


We Stole Our New Lives Through Blood and Pain

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Arranged Marriage, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Falling In Love, Kink Meme, Love/Hate, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:17:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His father gives Jaime a choice: pick a queen or one will be picked for him.  Jaime says the first name which comes to mind, and, just like that, Catelyn Tully becomes his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Stole Our New Lives Through Blood and Pain

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [ASOIAF Kink Meme](asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com) for the prompt (but went wildly off prompt): 
> 
> Catelyn/Jaime AU : _After killing Aerys, Jaime doesn't get off the throne when Ned comes into the great hall, he takes the Iron Throne for himself and as King he gets what he wants. What he wants is Cat. Deep down, she wants him too._

His father tells him he needs a queen, a beautiful woman with a pleasing manner the people will support. 

"You may be on that throne now, but unless we can win the smallfolk and the great houses to support you, your blood can spill as easily as Aerys's."

Cersei insists that he does not need a queen, but Tywin does not listen; names are put forth - Hightowers, Redwynes, Royces, Florents - but none of them sound appealing. He took the white cloak so he would never have to betray Cersei by lying with another woman, but Cersei is wedded and bedded to dour Ned Stark and Jaime does not understand why he must be faithful while she fucked the Lord of Winterfell.

"If you are going to be obstinate, I will choose for you!" Tywin snaps in frustration, and, not doubting his father's word, Jaime blurts out the name of the first girl he can think of, one of the few who has ever held his attention.

"Catelyn Tully."

The raven departs for Riverrun that day, and, within a fortnight, Catelyn Tully is en route to King's Landing to become queen.

* * *

He's only met Catelyn Tully once before, on that ill-fated trip to Riverrun when there was discussion of marrying him off to her younger, plainer sister. Then she had been Brandon Stark's, smiling at his flirtations, offering some of her own, but never once did she do anything which could have compromised her honor. Cersei hadn't cared for the eldest Tully at all, but Jaime liked her biting wit and the long auburn hair she kept unbound.

Her hair is tightly braided and coiled today; her dress is a brilliant cerulean, and, with the Tully cloak around her shoulders, Catelyn Tully is gorgeous. Her beauty is not like Cersei's, not like _his_ ; Catelyn Tully does not carry herself like someone who revels in her beauty, and, what's more, she is not the sort of person who revels in _his_. As she gazes unwaveringly into his emerald eyes, the High Septon droning on about marriage, Jaime detects a challenge in them, none of the deference or even fear which has come with slaying Aerys.

When he fastens the Lannister cloak around her shoulders, he catches the scent of her - lavender and apples - and the desire which courses through him stuns him. Her mouth is warm when he kisses her, and, when he pulls back, he sees that Catelyn did not close her eyes.

* * *

It's a grand feast with more food and drink than Jaime has ever seen; Tywin Lannister has spared no expense to celebrate his kingly son's nuptials. The lords are all half-drunk, even solemn Ned Stark, and the ladies are spinning about the floor to the musicians' beats. Jaime asks Lysa Tully to dance, and the girl looks close to tears the entire time, undoubtedly wondering why he chose her sister rather than her; he is not good at comforting women, so he does not try. He has danced with a dozen ladies, some so blatant in their desires it is embarrassing, and, when he looks for his new bride, he is stunned to find her dancing with Tyrion.

His brother is only recently nine, and Jaime suspects his father would have preferred to keep his youngest son hidden away. He stands upon a chair, his stunted arms holding his good-sister in the proper position; they can only sway rather than move about but both Tyrion and Catelyn are laughing as if it is the greatest experience of their lives. Jaime sees his father glowering across the room, an expression echoed on Cersei's face, but all Jaime can think is this is the first time anyone at court has ever shown his little brother any kindness.

"Bed them!" Robert Baratheon bellows, and he loses sight of Catelyn as she is enveloped by a crowd of lords eager to take off her pretty dress.

* * *

He arrives at his bedchamber first, the women having stripped him of all but his smallclothes. Cersei covertly grabs his cock and whispers, "Just think of me brother," as if it is going to be a terrible duty to bed Catelyn Tully. It is not until he is alone in the chamber that something akin to anxiety begins to lick at him; Cersei is the only woman he has ever wanted, the only woman he has ever bedded. 

The doors burst open as Robert Baratheon carries his wife over the threshold. Unlike the ladies, the lords of Westeros have stripped Catelyn down to her skin, and her face is as red as her hair as she attempts to shield her teats and cunt with her arms. Jaime sends the storm lord away, barring the door and, by the time he turns around, his bride is huddled under the blankets.

"There is no need to be shy with me, my lady. I _am_ your husband, after all."

Her jaw clenches tightly, as if she wishes to say something but is forcing herself not to; Jaime longs to hear her snap something, to act like Cersei and make this easier, but she doesn't. Instead she silently pushes the blankets away, allowing him to stare at her body.

"I hope I please you, your grace," she declares flatly.

Her breasts are large, a dappling of freckles across the skin, her rose colored nipples stiffening as he runs the backs of his fingers over the curves; she is curvier than Cersei, her hips wider, and he is certain it is that characteristic which makes Tywin Lannister approve of the marriage. He wonders if she knows his father asked her father about her childbearing ability, discussing the two of them as if he is going to breed horses instead of princes.

"You're very beautiful," he states matter-of-factly as he removes his smallclothes before gently opening her legs, kneeling between them. 

"So are you," she counters, that challenging look returning to her eyes. "Are we to be each other's mirrors?"

Cersei is his mirror, and there is something in Catelyn's tone which angers him. He only wants to pay her a compliment, to pull some sort of reaction from her; her idiot sister would already have been begging to be fucked, but here Catelyn lies staring at him as if they are discussing the weather.

He leans over her, bracing himself on his hands, mere inches separating their faces; grown men have cowered before him, but Catelyn Tully remains still even as his cock brushes the hair of her cunt. And then, as he is preparing to growl something unkind at his wife of six hours, he remembers the scent of Rickard Stark cooking in his armor, the desperate chokes of Brandon Stark as he attempted to free his father; mayhaps Jaime did not set out to be king, but Catelyn Tully hadn't set out to be queen.

"You're very beautiful," he repeats, his voice whisper soft, deliberately kinder. He briefly kisses her once before deepening it, coaxing her mouth open, teasing her tongue with his; she sighs tremulously, her body becoming more pliable, and Jaime moans as he lowers his body, the tips of her breasts brushing against his chest. 

She makes the most delightful sounds as he sucks her nipples, gasps and moans in shock as he tongues her cunt, her fingers clutching tightly enough at his hair to make it painful. Jaime loves it, the way she chants his name as she peaks, how wet she gets; by the time he breaks her maidenhead, Jaime decides Catelyn Tully may not have been such a bad choice after all.

* * *

They rarely talk. He is a king with a kingdom to fix, and she...does whatever it is ladies do with their days. Tywin stresses how important it is to have an heir as soon as possible, and, like a good son, he goes to Catelyn's bed every night. Like clockwork he arrives in her chambers every night after supping, fucks her, and then returns to his own chamber; the only conversation they have are the obscene suggestions he makes and the words she moans.

Pycelle announces she is swelling three moons after the wedding, and Tywin nearly smiles at what he views as the solidification of his power; Jaime does not fool himself into thinking he is anything more than a figurehead for his father's schemes, and it does not bother him. He is a knight, a soldier, and following orders is his way; when he makes his own decisions, he ends up the king only because he wanted to fuck with righteous Ned Stark.

With Catelyn pregnant, he ceases his nightly visits to her rooms; it takes less than a fortnight for him to realize he _misses_ her. Pycelle has warned against bedding her, saying until they see how she takes to pregnancy, it is best not disturb the child; Jaime has no excuse to call her on that night, but he still enters her chamber.

She looks up in surprise from her embroidery, a puzzled expression on her face. "Is something wrong, your grace?"

"No, I - " He suddenly feels stupid for seeking her out, for coming here like some lovesick boy. Instead he sits on the edge of her bed and gestures to what she holds. "What is that?"

"A blanket for the baby." Catelyn lifts the fabric and he can see it is crimson, her steady, careful hands sewing a golden lion on it. "I have already made one in Tully colors."

"I had a blanket like that," he shares, a peculiar tightness surrounding his heart. "I could not sleep without it when I was young."

"What happened to it?"

"I burned it."

"Why?"

"Because my father thought it weak for a boy to require a baby blanket."

It is not the whole truth; Tywin had given him a choice: burn the blanket or he would burn the doll Cersei cherished, the one with real golden curls which she had received from their mother on the last name day before she died.

But Catelyn Tully does not need to know that.

"A paragon of kindness, your father," Catelyn drawls, and he finds himself laughing.

"Tell me a story about _your_ father," he requests.

Jaime begins to collect Catelyn's stories the way he once collected Cersei's.

* * *

Catelyn has been laboring for twelve hours when Pycelle emerges from the room to tell Jaime he is the father to a healthy girl. Tywin instantly begins to curse about "that damned Tully girl" being unable to deliver a son, and Kevan assures him this does not mean sons are not in the offering. When Jaime asks how Catelyn is, both his father and uncle look at him speculatively; Pycelle assures him she is fine but quite distraught over having failed in her duty.

The moment Jaime enters the chamber, he knows Pycelle lied. Catelyn is anything but distraught; even after laboring for half of a day, Catelyn looks positively radiant as she nurses their daughter, grinning like a fool as she stares upon her. It takes her several minutes to realize he is there, and, when she does, Jaime is startled by how genuinely happy she is.

“Do you want to see her?”

He leans over the edge of the bed, staring down at the bundle suckling at Catelyn's breast. She is fair-skinned, a light dusting of auburn hair on her head; though her eyes are tightly closed, Jaime is willing to wager they are Tully blue. Reaching out, Jaime skims a finger down the bare skin of the baby's arm, marveling at its softness; Catelyn gently detaches the babe and moves as if to pass her to him.

“No,” he objects, stepping away from the bed. Catelyn's face falls, genuine hurt blatant on her features, and Jaime is shocked by the way it cuts him. “I haven't much experience with children, my queen.”

“I can show you,” she offers, stretching to take hold of the sleeve of his tunic, pulling him back towards the bed. Jaime arranges his arms like she instructs, and, when she gives him the baby, all he can do is stare at her. He hadn't thought of the baby while she was pregnant; it was just an heir, just a necessary duty of being king. Jaime has never considered what it would be like to be a father.

“Her name is Sansa.”

“Sansa,” he repeats. “Do I have a say in this?”

“No.”

Jaime nods; he does not particularly care what they call the baby. If Catelyn wishes to call their daughter some Riverlands name, he will not object; it is not as if he has any ideas of his own. He does not feel the overwhelming happiness that Catelyn obviously does, but something like affection burns in his chest when his daughter opens her eyes, gazing up at him with the purest blue eyes he has ever seen.

* * *

Four moons after Sansa's birth, Pycelle tells Jaime he can resume a husband's rights with his wife. Catelyn laughs when he arrives in her chamber shortly after nightfall, startling her maids with his eager entrance, and Jaime flushes brightly when he sees the heavy copper tub the maids are filling.

“Leave us,” Catelyn requests when her bath is drawn, bursting into laughter when the maids are gone. Jaime glowers as she teases, “Did you even let Pycelle finish speaking before you ran here?”

“It has been a year,” he all but growls, pulling off his boots.

He watches appreciatively as Catelyn undresses, waiting until she is nude to unbind her hair; it spills across her back, a perfumed veil, and Jaime finds himself reaching out to touch it. Catelyn twists her head, looking over her shoulder at him with a small smile playing at her lips. “Yes?”

“Come here.”

She shakes her head, stepping into the tub and sinking down into the water. “You come here.”

He has spent his life following Cersei, doing what she says; it is not so different doing the same with Catelyn Tully.

* * *

Catelyn nearly dies birthing Tommen, a fever keeping her abed for weeks. It is only as Pycelle is explaining how unlikely it is his wife will recover that Jaime realizes how much he does not want Catelyn Tully to die. His father is already planning the funeral, whispering with Kevan about who can replace her, and Jaime wonders if he will have a say at all this time.

Pycelle does not allow Catelyn to have visitors, and so Jaime finds himself in the nursery; Tommen sleeps in a golden cradle, little Sansa sitting primly with her septa, already a lady at three, and Jaime hopes Sansa will have memories of her mother. He thinks of his own mother, always so happy and sweet; Catelyn once mentioned her own mother died in the childbed, and Jaime decides he prefers war. At least, in war, the enemy can be fought.

Sansa smiles when she sees him, as happy and sweet-natured as her mother, and Jaime thinks of Cersei when they were small, how desperately she had tried to gain their father's attention; he bends down to her level, motioning for her to come to him, and Sansa rushes into his arms, her rosebud mouth pressing against the line of his jaw.

Jaime has never spent much time with his children; they have always been Catelyn's, little strangers with his blood. He is not a good father, not patient or gentle, but he thinks of his own father in the wake of Joanna Lannister's death, and he knows he does not want to be _that_ sort of father either.

Tywin would drop dead at the sight of his son, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, sitting on the floor of a nursery playing with his daughter, but Jaime does not care what his father thinks right now.

Catelyn manages to pull through, weakened but eager to hold Tommen. Jaime watches the way she cradles their son, Sansa climbing into bed beside her to touch her brother with little hands, and Jaime feels a queer tightening in his throat.

When the septa comes to claim the children, leaving he and Catelyn alone in her chamber, Jaime takes her mouth in a passionate kiss, his hand clutching a bit too tightly at her nightgown; his wife inhales sharply, surprised, but her mouth becomes soft and pliant, her hand rising to cup his cheek.

Catelyn looks at him with curious eyes as they break apart; he attempts to look away, but she takes hold of his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. After a moment, she leans forward, brushing her lips against his before whispering, “I'm fine, Jaime.”

She rarely calls him by his name; even after years of marriage, it is always “your grace” or “my king.” To hear his name on her lips feels strangely intimate.

He likes it.

* * *

The Greyjoys rebel and Jaime is off to war again. In a way, he is grateful for it; it has been too long since he has had a true fight, and, at his core, Jaime knows he is no king; he is a soldier, a knight, and nothing can change it. Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark fight at his side this time, and, though he still does not care much for his twin's husband, for the man that took her way and hid her in the North, even Jaime must admit Ned Stark is powerful in battle.

“Why are you not a knight, Lord Stark?” he asks his good-brother one evening before they retire to their tents.

“I don't need a title and a septon to make my fighting honorable.”

Jaime hear the unspoken end of the sentence: _not that you, Kingslayer, knows anything of honor._ It haunts him, that last night in service to the Kingsguard, to mad Aerys; Ned Stark will never understand what it was like in those days, to stand silent to unfathomable horrors. Vows had been broken, but were vows made to an evil man worth anything at all?

It takes eight moons to put down the rebellion, and, when Jaime and the great lords return to King's Landing, he finds Catelyn waiting with a new baby, another daughter she has named Joanna. The girl is a perfect mix of the both of them, golden hair shot through with red, Lannisters eyes and Tully features; Jaime holds his newest child, kisses Catelyn's mouth, gives Sansa and Tommen presents brought from the Westerlands, and, when he looks up, he finds Cersei watching him with sharp eyes.

“Don't tell me you have fallen in love with your queen,” she drawls one evening as they share midday meal in his solar. 

“Don't be ridiculous.”

Cersei quirks a brow, drinking deep from her wine cup. “Three children in five years, her neck draped in jewels, and even Father comments on how well you two get along. I think you _have_ fallen in love with her. You disappoint me.”

Jaime bristles at her tone. “You've whelped Ned Stark's children; I've heard it said _you_ run Winterfell. Mayhaps _I_ should be disappointed in _you_.”

Her face souring, she snaps, “You let Father send me to that frigid wasteland. What else was I to do? The difference is, I do not love Lord Stark, but _you_ clearly feel something for that Tully girl.”

 _She's jealous_ , he realizes, and it makes him smile. He has spent his entire life watching men flock to his twin, watched her flirt with men without a moment's hesitation while he glowered in silence; it amuses him to see Cersei being stung by the affection he holds for Catelyn Tully.

Catelyn does not like his twin. She never says anything against Cersei, but Jaime is well-versed enough in human behavior to see the way his wife actively tries to avoid his sister. Sometimes Jaime likes to watch the way Catelyn and Cersei dance around each other, Cersei wrapping her barbs in velvet, Catelyn subtly reminding Cersei with every word and action that _she_ is queen; Jaime doubts his wife cares at all for her crown, but it has always irked Cersei, promised from birth that she would be queen, to be nothing more than the Lady of Winterfell.

“You bait her,” Jaime murmurs to Catelyn one night, watching from the bed as she unravels her hair from its complicated undo. 

“She does not have to bite,” Catelyn retorts, reaching behind her back to try to tug at the laces of her gown. With a sigh, Jaime gets to his feet, undoing the knot of her laces, loosening her gown; he brushes his hand against the smooth skin of her back, kissing a patch of freckles on her right shoulder. She turns and, rather than kiss him, she holds him at bay with a hand on his chest.

“You reprimand _me_ for defending myself but say nothing to your sister for being cruel?”

“Cersei is - “

“Cersei is spoiled and cares only for herself,” Catelyn interrupts, true anger blazing in her blue eyes. 

“You will mind your tongue,” he warns, his instinct to protect Cersei greater than any other he had.

Catelyn scoffs as she steps back, ripping the gown from her back, leaving it in a pile on the floor; it is careless, not like her at all, but then, Jaime has never seen her quite so angry. “Yes, defend her more. Defend your precious twin while she openly mocks me. Defend your father when he refers to our daughters as useless and our son as soft. Defend House Lannister, the finest collection of oathbreakers and child murderers in the land. But Gods forbid the great King Jaime defend his wife and children!”

He moves quickly across the room, grasping her by the shoulders, so swollen with anger that, if she had been a man, he would have ended her life. To Catelyn's credit, she does not even flinch as he clutches her tightly enough to bruise; as he brings his face close to hers, she doesn't rear back and, for a moment, he thinks she is going to spit.

“You will keep a civil tongue when it comes to my family or - “

“What, you'll remove my tongue?” Her eyes narrow as she challenges, “Oh, don't stop now. You're doing a remarkable imitation of your father. Bloody my lip; I'm sure that will get you the pat on the head you so desperately desire.”

Afraid of what he will do to her, Jaime pushes her, sending her bouncing back onto the mattress. “You think I even wanted you as my queen? You should be grateful for what I have given you!”

“Do you think I wanted to _be_ your queen?” she shouts, face as crimson as her hair. “I would have had a far better husband in Brandon Stark, but you did what you do best and stood idly by! You're no king; you're nothing but an oathbreaker and a kingslayer - “

He is on her a minute, pinning her to the mattress. “You shut up! You shut up now or I swear to the Seven - “

“Mother!”

Both Jaime and Catelyn freeze at the sound of the small voice in the doorway, lifting their faces to see Sansa in her nightdress, her blue eyes wide in her face, her doll clutched tightly in her arms. Immediately Jaime steps back, shame overwhelming him as Catelyn rushes to their daughter, gathering her close to her chest; Sansa begins to cry, and, even across the room, Jaime can see how badly the little girl is shaking.

 _She's afraid of me_ , Jaime realizes, nausea churning in his stomach.

“It's alright, sweetling,” Catelyn coos, voice soft and gentle even as she glares at him over Sansa's shoulder. “I am fine. There is no need for tears.”

As he leaves Catelyn to comfort their daughter, Jaime has never felt more like the Mad King.

* * *

The farewell feast is raucous, the soon-to-be-departing lords and ladies swilling wine as if they have wandered in the desert for years without a drop of water, the music loud and boisterous. Jaime sits near Cersei, listening to a story she tells about some savage northman, when the musicians begin to play a lively Riverlands song. He doesn't think much of it until he hears Robert Baratheon bellow, “Cat!” followed by a flash of red hair in his peripheral vision. Jaime turns to see the Lord of Storm's End whirling his wife around like a doll, her laughter echoing through the hall; Robert's hand rests low on her back, nearly grasping her ass, and Jaime feels jealousy burn so brightly in his chest, his hand instinctively falls to his hip to pull the sword which is not there.

“It looks as if your wife will be rutting with that drunken stag tonight,” Cersei purrs, satisfaction thick in her voice, and it only serves to make him even angrier. He has barely spoken to his wife in a fortnight, not since that awful night Sansa walked in upon their fight, and their separation bothers him more than he'd like. To see Catelyn happy and light in Robert Baratheon's arms is salt in the wound.

Jaime does not plan to rise, does not plan to cross the floor and cut into the dance; Robert hands his wife over without complaint, and, if Catelyn wishes to pull away, she hides it well. Her lord father is present, and Jaime knows how high she values the good name of House Tully. As they resume the steps of the dance, he grits out, “You will not dance with him again.”

“Won't I?” she drawls, her face perfectly impassive so as not to draw attention.

“Is that what you want, to get fucked by the biggest whoremonger in the kingdoms?”

“What does it matter? _You_ do not want me.”

Jaime takes a steadying breath, trying not to snap back in anger; after a moment, he manages, “You are my queen.”

“No, I am the woman who bears your children, but I am not your queen. You do not even like me.” 

“I like you,” he objects, his fingers biting into her hip as she tries to draw away. “You just make everything so damned difficult.”

“I'm trying to _help_.” Her face softens, something like pity in her gaze. “You do not have to be like them, Jaime. There is a good man in you; I've seen it.”

“Then your vision fails you.” Sighing as he draws her nearer, he concedes, “But I should not have treated you the way I did, especially in front of Sansa.”

“You only treat me this way when you are near Cersei.”

“She leaves soon.”

“She never leaves,” is all Catelyn says, sounding so much older than she is.

He wonders if Ned Stark feels the same about him.

* * *

It happens on an otherwise ordinary day. Jaime dines with his wife, father, uncle, brother, and a few members of the small council; they are discussing the library, of all things, when Catelyn mentions she is reading some tome on the Dothraki. He is barely following the conversation, books having always been more Tyrion's forte than his own, when Tywin pronounces, “That book is not suitable for a queen.”

“I find it palatable,” Catelyn easily replies.

“I will not have you filling your mind with trash. There are more than enough issues which can use your attention. You will return the book to Pycelle.”

“When I finish it, I will.”

Jaime sees irritation flash in his father's eyes; Tyrion shifts uncomfortably beside their uncle, and the men at the table all appear to brace themselves for what is about to happen. 

“You will return it immediately; I will not tell you again.”

Catelyn sets down her cutlery, composed as she ever is, but Jaime senses something is about to happen. “You will not _tell_ me anything, Lord Hand. I am your queen and I do not take orders from you. Now, I have said I will return the book once I have finished it, and _I_ will not tell _you_ again.” Picking up her utensils, Catelyn smiles condescendingly. “But thank you for taking such an interest in my hobbies, Lord Tywin.”

It is so quiet in the hall, it is as if everyone fears even breathing; no one has ever spoken to Tywin Lannister this way, and Jaime feels like a small child again, waiting for his father to explode. Tyrion's mismatched eyes are so wide in his head, they appear as if they are going to pop from his head, and even Kevan looks stunned at Catelyn's brazenness. She meets Tywin's gaze unwaveringly, a feat Jaime has never been able to accomplish, and awe begins to bloom in Jaime's heart.

Lord Tyrell changes the subject, breaking the tension, and Catelyn leaves the table soon after to bid goodnight to the children. Jaime sees the way his father is stewing in his anger, and giddiness begins to tingle throughout his body; he and Tyrion exchange furtive glances, his brother as obviously amused as he is, and it is like the entire world has shifted with Catelyn's act of defiance.

Catelyn is in her shift brushing her long hair when he enters her chamber. She sighs, setting the brush down. “I know I should not have spoken to your father - “

Jaime swallows the rest of her words, mauling her mouth as he tumbles her back upon the featherbed; Catelyn hesitates only a moment before returning his passion. He tears her smallclothes in his haste, only his pants pushed beneath his ass before he is inside her, thrusting powerfully; Catelyn cries out, catching his lower lip in her teeth. Jaime tastes iron on her tongue and he is not sure which of them bleeds. The entire affair is over in a matter of minutes; Catelyn pulses around him, shouting loud enough to be heard in the furthest reaches of the keep, and Jaime spills into her, groaning against her throat.

As they attempt to catch their breath, Jaime manages to roll off of her, coming to rest on his back; they stare up at ceiling, both still panting when he reaches blindly for her hand. Catelyn's fingers tangle with his, and she squeezes it lightly.

“No one's ever stood up to my father like that,” he breathes before pulling away, shedding his clothes until he was nude. Catelyn watches him, sitting up when he pulls at her hands, letting him remove her shift until she, too, is bare. 

“He's not a god.”

“Tell that to the Castameres. Oh, wait, they're all dead.”

Catelyn rolls her eyes, pulling back the bedclothes and urging him in beside her. Jaime inhales in surprise as Catelyn throws one leg over his body, sitting on his lower stomach; he can already feel his arousal returning as she slides her hands up his chest.

“You're the king, Jaime. He cannot do anything to you.”

He brushes her long hair behind her shoulders with a shake of his head. “You do not know my father.”

“I know _you_.”

An amused laugh slips past his lips. “Do you now?”

“I do. I see you.” She brushes a kiss over his cheekbones, along his jaw, to the point of his chin. “You act as if you are hard like him, like you do not see how others suffer, but you do. And I see you with the children. You pretend like they are of no concern and yet, whenever you think no one is watching, you're chasing them through the gardens and showering them with presents.”

Jaime flips their positions, pinning Catelyn's hands to the mattress as she grins up at him; she raises her knees, settling him between her thighs, and Jaime rolls his hips at the feel of her against him. “The man you described cannot be king.”

“The man I described in the man who _should_ be king.” Inhaling deeply as his fingers begin to stroke her, making her wet again, she whimpers, “Wouldn't you rather be loved than feared?”

“Do _you_ love me?” he counters, easing his way into her body, choking back a moan at the feel of her. 

Catelyn stills beneath him before softly confessing, “Sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” he tries to jape, uncertain why her words sting. “Why's that?”

“Because you're only kind to me sometimes.” Catelyn pushes her hips up, silently urging him to move. “And that is still more than you love me.”

Jaime doesn't love Catelyn Tully; there has only ever been enough love in him for Cersei. But, as they move together, Jaime knows he feels _something_ for his wife.

* * *

He finds Catelyn on the beach, her hose and slippers in hand as the Sunset Sea laps at her feet. Jaime watches as she curls her toes into the wet sand, the salty air scattering her auburn hair, and he hears her laugh at something Ser Barristan says; the eldest member of the Kingsguard bears no love for Jaime, thinks him an oathbreaker and kingslayer, but the old man is fond of his pretty wife. If another man, Jaime would have worried, but he knows better than anyone how unyielding in his vows Barristan Selmy is.

“Enjoying yourself, my queen?”

Catelyn turns, grinning as brightly as the sun shining above the sea. “It's so beautiful here. It makes me wish I was small so I could swim in it.”

“You swim?”

Her smile becomes slightly mocking. “I grew up at Riverrun, surrounded on all sides by water. What sort of trout would I be if I did not swim?”

Jaime points to the cliffs above them. “When we were little, Cersei and I would leap from there; it would drive our mother to distraction.”

“Let us hope Sansa and Tommen do not do the same.”

“Oh, if any of our children leap from a cliff, it will be Joanna.”

Catelyn laughs. “Do not sound so proud.”

Of all of his children, Jaime frequently finds himself most amused by Joanna. Sansa is a princess in everything she does, the perfect little lady; she is sweet and kind, and Jaime is surprised by the protectiveness he feels for his eldest. Tommen, for all his desperate desire to be a knight, is clumsy, plump, and possesses such a gentle heart that, if he did not look precisely like his father, all of court would think him to be someone else's child. At six, Joanna is already bolder than her older brother and twice as clever; forever slipping her septa, Jaime has lost count of how many times he has caught Joanna gathering sticks to use as makeshift swords or scurrying up trees to evade her lessons. 

Looking upon the gently rolling waves, Jaime orders, “Leave us, Ser Barristan.”

Once the knight crested the rocks, leaving he and Catelyn alone in the small cove, Jaime begins to strip off his shirts. Catelyn's eyes widen in surprise, gasping, “What are you doing?”

“Going for a swim. Join me.”

“I can't.” Her eyes flicking towards the rocks Barristan waits behind, she asks, “What if something happens? What if someone sees?”

Now stripped to his skin, Jaime shrugs, circling behind her to loosen the laces of her gown. “Then they see that their queen has the best teats in Westeros.”

“Shut up,” she sighs, twisting beneath his hands, curling her shoulders as if to protect herself. Jaime carefully urges her gown down her arms, nudging her long braid aside to brush a kiss against the nape of her neck. Catelyn flinches as his right hand settles on the softness of her lower abdomen, the stubborn weight which has clung to her body since Edmund's birth a year earlier, and Jaime feels a warm rush of affection for his wife.

“You needn't be so vain,” he says, untying her shift and urging it over her head. 

“You're more vain than most women.”

Slipping his hands beneath her smallclothes, working them down her legs, Jaime chuckles. “Touche. But you still have no reason to be ashamed.”

Stepping out of her clothes, allowing Jaime to lead her into the sea, she complains, “Cersei asked me if I am breeding again. They all whisper about how fat I am getting.”

Waist deep in the water, Jaime pulls her against him, her breasts pressing against his chest as his hands hold her hips. “The only person whose opinion matters is mine, and I think you are perfectly fine. More than fine, actually; I could hardly take my eyes off you when you wore that green dress yesterday.”

“You didn't take your eyes off of me because that gown is too small, my teats were practically out, and Robert Baratheon kept trying to sit beside me.”

“He wants to fuck you.”

Backing away, going deeper into the water until she could no longer touch the bottom, Catelyn grins as she bobs in the waves. “Does it make you jealous to think of other men wanting me?”

“Wanting you? No. _Fucking_ you? Yes.” Swimming towards her, he proclaims, “The lords are too free with you, always watching you, calling you Cat.”

“It is my name,” she laughs, evading him as he reaches for her, darting away with surprising quickness. “What else would they call me?”

“You are their queen. They should be more respectful.”

“Like all the ladies are when they press themselves against you and purr 'Ser Jaime?'” A wave comes in, dousing them both, and, as Catelyn flips her soaked hair away from her face, all Jaime can think of are the stories his Uncle Gerion used to tell him about mermaids. As the setting sun hits the water, Catelyn's hair blazes bright as a flame, and, in this instant, Jaime sees the girl he first met at Riverrun all those years ago, the one who vibrated with so much life that, when Tywin asked him to name a bride, he could think only of her. 

“I only want you,” he declares, surprised at how much he means it, saddened by the hope which shines in her eyes.

When he kisses Cersei that night, the taste of the sea and Catelyn's cunt still on his tongue, it is the first time it feels like a betrayal.

* * *

Three days after Sansa's thirteenth birthday, Tywin declares she is to be betrothed to Cersei's eldest boy Joffrey. Jaime has only seen his nephew a handful of times, but he has seen the cruel glint in the boy's green eyes, witnessed the way Tommen actively avoids his cousin, and he cannot imagine what the boy will do to Sansa, who has always been so unbearably sweet.

He does not even plan to speak, but suddenly the words are flying out of his mouth. “Absolutely not.”

Tywin stiffens, his eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

“Sansa will not wed him.” Swallowing hard, he adds, “I forbid it.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, I forbid it.” Ignoring the stunned expression on his uncle's face, Jaime pronounces, “I will not send my daughter to Winterfell when it does nothing to further House Lannister or this kingdom.”

“What would you know about furthering either?” his father challenges. “You bury your head in the sand, let better men do your ruling for you. Do not try to puff yourself up now by - “

“I have already promised Sansa to Sunspear,” he lies, mayhaps the boldest lie he has ever told. 

Jaime has never seen such pure rage on his father's face. “The Martells - “

“We owe them a princess,” Jaime interrupts, and he thinks this might be his greatest act of rebellion, greater even than running Aerys Targaryen through with his sword. “And I have promised them Sansa. No daughter of mine will go to Winterfell, and that is the final word on the subject.”

“Think carefully about what you're doing, _boy_.”

“I do not have to think about it; it is already done.”

Jaime does not realize he's shaking until Tywin leaves the room and he attempts to pour himself a cup of wine.

For the first time in his life, Jaime truly feels like a king.

* * *

Jaime realizes he loves his wife when Edmund is five. Pycelle comes to him, shuffling and sputtering, but Jaime quickly understands what the maester is telling him: Edmund cannot read because he keeps inverting letters. He sees the way his father scowls, huffing in irritation, and Jaime remembers those long days he was kept inside, his knuckles bruised from the raps which were earned for answering wrong; oh, he reads well enough now, but Jaime is not sure his father has ever forgiven him for being flawed. If he tries, Jaime can still hear his father declaring no Lannister son will be a half-wit, and Jaime wonders which embarrassed his father more: an able-bodied son who could not read or a dwarf son who read better than maesters of the Citadel.

When he goes to Catelyn's chamber the night, Jaime explains what Pycelle told him. She is quiet for only a beat before announcing, “Then we'll help him get better.”

Jaime isn't sure why he has never noticed how patient Catelyn is. For weeks, every time he sees his wife during the day, she is curled up with Edmund, her steady hand holding their son's shaking one to help form letters, her voice soft and kind as she corrects him. Some afternoons, he finds Tommen with them; on others, Tyrion keeps them company. Every day Catelyn works with him before letting him play, never once raising her voice, never striking him for a mistake. 

He is coming from the yard one morning when he sees Catelyn and Edmund in the gardens, a book in front of them. As Jaime comes up behind them, he hears Edmund ask, “Am I stupid?”

“No,” Jaime answers instantly, startling both his wife and son, “and I never want to hear you say differently. Different people are skilled at different things. You may have problems with your letters, but no one at court can run as fast or as far as you can. The gods do not bless a single person with _all_ the gifts.”

Edmund squeals as Jaime suddenly picks him up, tossing him into the air and listening to him giggle. Catelyn watches with tender eyes, and, when he sets Edmund back on his feet, ordering him to go play, she closes the heavy tome. Jaime takes a seat beside her, stretching his long legs, and Catelyn rests her head upon his shoulder with a soft sigh.

“You're a good father,” she murmurs.

The emotion which swells in his chest nearly overwhelms him, the compliment shaking him to the core. Jaime bends his head, capturing her mouth for a long, slow kiss before pulling her against his chest.

Jaime knows unequivocally that he loves Catelyn Tully. 

Some day he hopes he will be able to find the strength to tell her.


End file.
